Hell’s Angels are drinking coffee
on Sunday morning. They are pumping
gas at the Texaco. They’ve rolled
up packs and tied down bundles. They’re calling
up their wives and kids on cellular phones.
They’re combing their hair in the little side
view mirror and making ponytails where it’s gone
thin. One slows and waves when he makes
a tight turn wiping donut crumbs out
of his beard. They’re going home, it’s morning,
just a little too early for looking tough
and calling a fight. And what is home
but a place to travel? A place you’re never in
and can’t quite find.